Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

Calmly We Walk Through This April’s Day
by Delmore Schwartz

Calmly we walk through this April’s day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn…)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(…that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn…)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn . . .)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(…that time is the fire in which they burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

Delmore Schwartz was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. His parents separated when he was nine, and their divorce had a profound effect on him.

Schwartz spent time at Columbia University and the University of Wisconsin before finally graduating from New York University in 1935. Soon after graduation, he made his parents’ disastrous marriage the subject of his most famous short story, “In Dreams Begin Responsibilities” which was published in 1937 in the first issue of Partisan Review. This and other short stories and poems were collected and released in his first book, under the same name (1938). (The story was later republished in the collection In Dreams Begin Responsibilities and Other Stories (1978).) This first work was well received, and made him a well-known figure in New York intellectual circles. His work received praise from some of the most well-respected people in literature, and he was considered one of the most gifted writers of his generation.

In 1937, he also married his first wife, a book reviewer for Partisan Review, Gertrude Buckman, whom he divorced after six years.

For the next couple of decades, he continued to publish numerous stories, poems, and plays, and edited the Partisan Review from 1943 to 1955 as well as The New Republic. In 1948, he married the much younger novelist, Elizabeth Pollett. Unfortunately, this relationship also ended in divorce.

In 1959, he became the youngest recipient of the Bollingen Prize, awarded for a collection of poetry he released that year, Summer Knowledge: New and Selected Poems. His poetry differed in many respects from his stories in that it wasn’t especially autobiographical and was much more philosophical. His verse would also become increasingly abstract in his later years. He taught creative writing at six different universities and in 1962 taught one of his most famous students, future singer-songwriter Lou Reed, who dedicated several songs to his mentor (including “European Son” from The Velvet Underground and Nico and “My House” from The Blue Mask).

In addition to being known as a gifted writer, Schwartz was also known as a great conversationalist and spent a lot of time entertaining friends at the White Horse Tavern in New York City.

Much of Schwartz’s work is notable for its philosophical and deeply meditative nature, and the literary critic, R.W. Flint, wrote that Schwartz’s stories were, “the definitive portrait of the Jewish middle class in New York during the Depression.”

Unfortunately, he was unable to repeat or build on his early successes later in life as a result of alcoholism and mental illness, and his last years were spent in isolation in the Hotel Marlon in New York City (this downward spiral following his initial success formed the basis for Saul Bellow‘s novel Humboldt’s Gift (1975)). In fact, he was so cut off from the rest of the world that when he died on July 11, 1966 at age 53, two days passed before his body was discovered.

Schwartz was interred at Cedar Park Cemetery, in Emerson, New Jersey.

Biography for Delmore Schwartz was provided by: Wikipedia.

If anyone happens to know the artist of the painting above, let me know. I’d love to give credit to the artist.

Link back to the Poetry Wednesday Poetess Hostess with the Mostess…

deletereply billatplay wrote on Mar 30, ’09 Very nice poem and from a young soul coming from a life destroying marriage. I had to smile though as I thought my school days. Just come top and get on with the shopping it was just another job. lol

deletereply starfishred wrote on Mar 30, ’09 A nice poem by a very talented man thanks laurita

deletereply sanssouciblogs wrote on Mar 30, ’09 He is a wonderful, wonderful writer, I read “In Dreams…” years ago, and though I don’t fully remember it, I was very moved by it. Excellent post. Schwartz is a writer worth knowing.

deletereply bostonsdandd wrote on Apr 1, ’09 LOL You answered most of my questions about the poem with the autobiography :o). But, and here is what stands out to me, this poem is about abuse. It could have been self-inflicted abuse. The verses about where are they now points to how, even as early as when he started writing, he knew there was something “off” with his memories. Thank you! http://bostonsdandd.multiply.com/journal/item/270

deletereply sweetpotatoqueen wrote on Apr 1, ’09 lauritasita said May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn. Laurita: Isn’t this what life is all about? The culmination of the tiny moments in life that make up the bigger picture. I really enjoyed this selection and always enjoy the background of the poets. And that painting is so wonderful for this selection. I leave your page wiser for the knowledge and beauty you share each and every time I visit here! Thanks you! HUGS!

deletereply skeezicks1957 wrote on Apr 5, ’09 Time is the fire in which we burn . . . so very true. The minutes pass and as they tick away so do we. Very profound. His bio sounded familiar. I must have read it before.